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- Herausgeber: Wildside Press
- Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
- Serie: Sime~Gen
- Sprache: Englisch
Rital Madz had always viewed his cousin Den's obsession with recreating the powered flight of Ancient Humans as a waste of time and a good scientific mind. But their arguments must be set aside when an epidemic sweeps the continent, testing the fragile peace between Sime and Gen Territories that keeps both larities of humans alive. Trains stop running, factories close, and infected adolescents on both sides of the border die when their bodies undergo the strain of turning either Sime or Gen.
Rital leads the team desperately searching for an antidote to stem the epidemic, only to find that the only supply of a crucial ingredient lies on the other side of a river in flood stage. Suddenly Den's annoying hobby becomes the only means of transporting that ingredient And a single, untried young pilot must fly to retrieve it in an untested prototype, before the fabric of society unravels entirely.
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Seitenzahl: 594
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
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Table of Contents
THE SIME~GEN® SERIES
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
DEDICATIONS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
THE SIME~GEN® SERIES
1. House of Zeor, by Jacqueline Lichtenberg
2. Unto Zeor, Forever, by Jacqueline Lichtenberg
3. First Channel, by Jean Lorrah and Jacqueline Lichtenberg
4. Mahogany Trinrose, by Jacqueline Lichtenberg
5. Channel’s Destiny, by Jean Lorrah and Jacqueline Lichtenberg
6. RenSime, by Jacqueline Lichtenberg
7. Ambrov Keon, by Jean Lorrah
8. Zelerod’s Doom, by Jacqueline Lichtenberg and Jean Lorrah
9. Personal Recognizance, by Jacqueline Lichtenberg
10. The Story Untold and Other Stories, by Jean Lorrah
11. To Kiss or to Kill, by Jean Lorrah
12. The Farris Channel, by Jacqueline Lichtenberg
13. Fear And Courage: Fourteen Writers Explore Sime~Gen, edited by Zoe Farris and Karen L. MacLeod
14. A Change of Tactics, by Mary Lou Mendum, Jacqueline Lichtenberg, and Jean Lorrah
15. A Shift of Means, by Mary Lou Mendum, Jacqueline Lichtenberg, and Jean Lorrah
OTHER BOOKS BY JACQUELINE LICHTENBERG
Molt Brother
City of a Million Legends
Science Is Magic Spelled Backwards and Other Stories: Jacqueline Lichtenberg Collected Book One
Through The Moon Gate and Other Stories of Vampirism: Jacqueline Lichtenberg Collected Book Two
OTHER BOOKS BY JEAN LORRAH
Jean Lorrah Collected
Savage Empire
Dragon Lord of the Savage Empire
Captives of the Savage Empire
BOOKS BY JEAN LORRAH & LOIS WICKSTROM
Nessie and the Living Stone
Nessie and the Viking Gold
Nessie and the Celtic Maze
Order of the Virgin Mothers and Other Plays
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 2023 by Sime~Gen, Inc.
Cover Art by Diana L. Parker
Published by Wildside Press LLC.
wildsidepress.com
DEDICATIONS
MARY LOU MENDUM
Once again Karen and Zoe propelled our novel to the finish line faster than we could do it alone. But we were still too slow.
Be advised as you read this novel that the medical details were plotted out many years before Covid-19 struck as we finished the first draft. We watched aghast as reality unfolded stranger than even our fiction! And we decided not to adjust our future-history to avoid resemblance to the reader’s recent history.
A fan fiction version of this novel, A Test of Courage, was serialized in A Companion in Zeor #18 through 20 (2003-2004).
“The Legend of the Creeping Need,” which is mentioned in this novel, is a bit of Sime folklore established in another fan fiction story in A Companion in Zeor #13 and appears in Fear and Courage: Fourteen Writers Explore Sime~Gen (Sime-Gen Book 13), Wildside Press September 2, 2015. Much of the medical detail in this novel was referred to in that story.
We all salute Kaires Tevesu a/k/a Gene Schneider, a long time hostess of the Sime~Gen parties at science fction conventions brought these novels to the attention of thousands. She passed on February 21, 2022.
*
My work on this novel is dedicated to the people who taught me how to write: Phyllis Cates, who taught me not to be afraid of a blank page; Jacqueline Lichtenberg, who taught me how to work through a plot; and Judith McKibbon, who taught me how to edit.
JACQUELINE LICHTENBERG
My work on the Clear Springs Chronicles to Karen MacLeod and Zoe Farris, and all the friends and supporters of the Sime~Gen universe stories.
JEAN LORRAH
All my work in the Sime~Gen universe is of course dedicated to Jacqueline Lichtenberg, whose imagination produced the original concept. I will be forever grateful for being allowed to help the universe grow.
CHAPTER 1
Selyn Plague
The Collectorium waiting room was almost empty.
Hajene Rital Madz had expected many Gens to come this morning. The Clear Springs University students returning from their fall break should have been eager to restore their depleted bank accounts by donating selyn. However, only two Gens waited in the large, pleasant room. One was the elderly Joziah Duncan and the other shouldn’t have been there: Branlee Arnborg’s life energy field was not yet replenished from the last time he had donated.
“Where is everyone?” Rital’s cousin Den wondered aloud.
Like their waiting clients, Den Milnan was a Gen. However, Den had taken the arduous training to become a technical-class First Order Donor. As such, he was infinitely precious to Rital.
That did not blind Rital to his cousin’s faults. “There hasn’t been another accident in your research program, has there? No prototype flyer smashing into the Chancellor’s office?”
“Of course not! The prototype testing is across the border in Valzor.”
Den’s indignation was genuine, but so was his history of provoking incidents with unauthorized experiments aimed at recreating the flying machines of the Ancients.
Rital eyed the pair of waiting Gens. “So, what brings your research assistant to the Collectorium? Branlee zlins a week early to donate.” He frowned. “Mr. Duncan zlins a day early, too.”
Rital did not believe in coincidences. Searching for a clue to the mystery, the channel let the slender, nerve-rich lateral tentacles along the sides of his arms extend just a little, letting him zlin the selyn fields of the waiting Gens more clearly. These two were regular donors of the life energy only Gens produced, but Simes had to have to live.
Branlee’s nager projected excitement and interest, but not fear or anxiety. Mr. Duncan zlinned tired, but that was a common response to Branlee’s unrelenting enthusiasm.
“Anything particularly exciting going on at your factory in Berrysville?” Rital asked his cousin.
While it had yet to produce a powered flyer, Den’s research program had produced several other salable products and outgrown the Sime Center’s basement. Den now ran this part of the enterprise from a warehouse in nearby Berrysville.
“Branlee hasn’t reported anything,” Den answered. “He took a week off to go watch the Clear Springs University stickball team compete in the playoffs in Bawson.”
Rital would never understand the out-Territory obsession with sports. “Maybe he can tell us where our selyn donors went?” he suggested.
“Everybody has the flu,” Branlee explained. “Most of Bawson was sick with it. You could hardly hear the referees over the coughing. The Bawson players were all either too sick to play or off their form. That gave Clear Springs the victory, since our team didn’t get sick until two days into the ride back. I was pretty sick myself, by then.”
Rital could imagine how swiftly disease would spread on a crowded special train making the five-day round trip to the port city of Bawson in Nengland Territory. All for the privilege of seeing a stickball game!
“My grandson Rob came back sick, too,” Mr. Duncan added.
“He didn’t take his illness home to Bethany, I hope?” Rital asked. Rob Lifton’s young wife was five months along.
“He wanted to,” Mr. Duncan admitted, “but I talked him into staying at my place,” said Mr. Duncan. “Now he’s convalescing in my study, writing pages of sweet nothings to send out with the afternoon mail.” He rolled his eyes in amused tolerance. “Young love. They take that ‘in sickness and in health’ bit a little farther than is sensible, to my mind.”
“They can survive a few more days apart,” Rital agreed.
“Hajene,” Branlee broke into the conversation, “I don’t want to rush you, but I promised some sick friends that I’d bring them some groceries.”
“It’s too soon,” Rital told him. “You’re not high field yet. You should come back next week.”
The young man blinked. “Not high field? I was due to donate before I left for Bawson!”
Den consulted the young man’s file. “Branlee’s right, Rital. His last selyn donation was five weeks ago.”
“That’s impossible!” the channel objected.
Den pointed to the relevant entry. The date was as clear and undeniable as the strength of Branlee’s field.
“Branlee, has anything unusual happened since your last donation?” Rital asked. “Any injury or new medication? Anything at all that might explain why you’re carrying less selyn than you should?”
“Nothing!” Branlee wailed. “I spent most of my time helping organize the Berrysville factory, then I took the special express to Bawson with everybody else. I had a beer or two to celebrate after the game, but that’s never mattered before. On the way back, I was too sick to do anything odd.”
“Maybe the sickness is responsible?” Den guessed.
“It was just the flu,” Branlee grumbled. “It didn’t mess with my field last year.”
“The flu changes from year to year,” Rital told him crisply. Gesturing for Den to block the selyn field of Mr. Duncan, he held out his hands. “Let me zlin you properly.”
“I’m fine, now,” the young Gen protested, but obediently pushed the long sleeves of his shirt up to bare his forearms. He placed his hands in Rital’s, signaling consent for the examination.
Rital let his hands slide up to grasp Branlee’s wrists and extended his handling tentacles. Two on the top of each arm and two on the underside, they were the most visible of the differences that marked Rital as a Sime. Emerging from the orifices at his wrists, they bound the Gen’s arms securely to his own, preventing any injudicious movement. Once Rital’s grip was secure, he extended all four nerve-rich, vulnerable lateral tentacles and let them contact Branlee’s arms.
Rital’s body resonated to every detail of the young Gen’s selyn field. He could zlin the lingering weakness from recent illness, the stimulation of the coffee Branlee had consumed to counter it, and the steady pulse of increasing selyn production. After checking every organ and system, Rital withdrew his lateral tentacles and released his grip on the Gen’s arms.
“You seem perfectly healthy now, apart from carrying a week’s less selyn than you should,” he told Branlee. “Your selyn production is fine, so you ‘ll be able to donate next week.”
“Good,” Branlee said. “My landlady likes to get her rent on time.”
“Now we’ve settled that,” Mr. Duncan broke in, “could you take my donation, Hajene? Between putting the garden to bed for the winter and Rob being sick, I’m exhausted. I’d like to sneak in a nap before I have to start cooking supper.”
Zlinning the elderly Gen with senses sharpened by deep-zlinning Branlee, Rital noticed some aberrations. “Mr. Duncan, you’re going to require more than just a nap,” he predicted. “I think you’ve caught this flu from Rob. And...,” he swallowed, unnerved by the contradiction, “your selyn field has stopped increasing, even though you’re still below what should be your maximum field.”
Convincing the elderly Gen that he was sick was relatively easy—Mr. Duncan had always been a realist. Convincing him to weather his illness at the Sime Center was more difficult.
“If Rob’s barely back on his feet, he won’t be able to care for you properly,” Rital argued. “Besides, he’ll want to get home to Bethany as soon as possible.”
“And if this flu isdoing strange things to people’s selyn fields, we’ll want to know about that, too,” Den added.
They settled Mr. Duncan into the infirmary and put Gati Forsin, the off-duty receptionist, in charge of looking after him. She was an ordinary renSime, not a channel like Rital, but her naturally higher Sime body temperature made her immune to most Gen illnesses. Then Rital and Den returned to the Collectorium to finish their shift.
Three hours and five unexpectedly low field selyn donors later, Rital’s concern had turned to alarm.
“Every Gen missing a week’s worth of selyn went to Bawson for that blasted game and caught the flu,” he observed. “That’s the only thing they have in common, so it wasn’t something they ate or drank, or some mythical Distect channel stealing donations.”
“A selyn-eating flu?” Den didn’t try to hide his skepticism. “It’s like those pre-Unity horror stories the junct Simes used to tell, about whole Pens full of captive Gens being stripped of selyn by the Creeping Need.”
“Sometimes even legends have a nugget of truth to them,” Rital pointed out. “The trick is to find it. We have an index case in the infirmary. Let’s start there.”
Mr. Duncan’s illness had progressed over the past few hours. He was pale, feverish, and no longer talking about going home. Generalized muscle aches and pains combined with his normal arthritis to project a haze of discomfort. A tickle at the back of his throat warned of a cough to come.
All of that was to be expected in an elderly flu patient. However, the distinct drop in selyn field strength over the past three hours was not. Mr. Duncan was producing selyn at his normal rate. However, it was disappearing faster than it was made and Rital couldn’t zlin how or where it was going.
“I’d like to take a closer zlin, if I may,” Rital asked. “I should be able to make you feel more comfortable, at the least.”
“That would be a relief,” the old man admitted, and offered his hands.
A channel’s primary way to treat ill or injured Gens was to project the Need for selyn, stimulating selyn production and increasing the rate of healing. The more the projection was focused on the affected area, the greater the healing effect. As a First Order channel, Rital could control his projection more tightly than most channels.
As he focused on Mr. Duncan’s aching muscles, Rital zlinned the expected decrease in pain and increase in selyn production. However, the strange, impersonal selyn consumption was also stimulated. The effect persisted after Rital stopped projecting Need, only slowly returning to its previous level.
Rital tried again, this time focusing on the irritated throat. The irritation improved, but at the cost of another lingering increase in selyn consumption. A third attempt to reduce Mr. Duncan’s fever produced the same result. Rital could reduce symptoms and stimulate healing, but that healing came at the price of a dramatic increase in the selyn wasted by the disease.
“I think Mr. Duncan will fight off the illness more rapidly with channel’s help than without,” Rital reported to Den, after they had left their patient to nap. “However, I estimate he’ll lose an extra week’s selyn production if I do.”
“That may change as he starts to overcome the infection,” Den pointed out.
“I hope so,” Rital agreed. “If we have a flu strain this year that burns off up to two weeks of selyn in every infected Gen, the Tecton is in trouble. It’s bad enough that the amount of industrial selyn we ship in-Territory is going to be way down until this epidemic runs its course. What happens if this disease hops the border and starts infecting the donors who supply our Simes?”
Den nodded soberly. “You can run fewer trains or cut factory hours and people will survive,” he agreed. “A Sime has to have selyn on time or die.”
“We have a little time to prepare,” Rital reminded them both, grasping for hope with all eight handling tentacles.
Mid-afternoon, a Gen arrived who presented a different challenge. Sociology graduate student Arth Tinkum was a regular selyn donor, but only because Rital had made that a condition of allowing him to conduct demographic research on the Sime Center’s selyn donors. Arth was solidly high field, but today, his habitual nervousness around Simes was supplemented with severe anxiety, stress, sleep deprivation and far too many cups of coffee.
“I defend my thesis next week,” he explained as Rital and Den escorted him to a collecting room. “I’ve been writing and studying nonstop for three weeks. I didn’t even go to Bawson for the game.”
“Most of the students who did go, seem to have gotten sick,” Den told him. “You may have chosen the better bargain.”
“I’d rather have the flu than deal with a grumpy thesis committee,” Arth complained as he stretched out on the transfer lounge and rolled up his sleeves. “So of course, the only time they could all get together was half past seven on Monday morning. That’s before the student union opens for breakfast!”
“Perhaps you could supply coffee and muffins, to put them into a good mood?” Den suggested, moving into position behind Rital’s shoulder as the channel took Arth’s hands and extended handling tentacles to wrap gently around his arms.
“I just know they’ll ask me some simple question, one that I could answer in my sleep, and my mind will go blank and I’ll fail and...”
For the first time since he had started donating selyn, the graduate student’s attention wasn’t riveted on Rital, if only because he perceived his impending thesis defense as the greater threat. That gave Rital an idea.
“It’s a slow day today, so there’s time to try something different,” Rital said casually, letting his lateral tentacles extend to make contact.
That caught Arth’s attention and his arms tensed under Rital’s tentacles. “What do you mean, something different?” he demanded.
“Nothing sinister,” Rital reassured him quickly. “You’re still a GN-3, even after donating selyn for over a year. I thought I’d try to go a bit deeper this time, that’s all.”
“I...don’t think I’m ready for that,” Arth admitted. “Nothing personal, but I’ve got a lot going on, just now.”
With the greater precision of lateral contact, Rital could zlin the Gen’s barriers close tightly in response to his apprehension, locking all but the selyn stored in the shallowest, GN-3 level away from Rital. Those barriers would have to release before the deeper selyn storage levels could be accessed.
Most out-Territory Gens acquired enough confidence to relax the barriers guarding the GN-2 and GN-1 levels after three or four donations to a channel. That Arth hadn’t, even after a year of donating selyn and performing research at the Sime Center, made the Gen a chronic missed opportunity on the Sime Center’s balance sheets — and one that Rital could no longer afford to ignore.
“There isn’t any preparation necessary,” he explained. “All you have to do is relax and trust me to handle it. You really can, you know.”
“...I know, but...”
The young Gen had never been taught how to relax properly. Now that his attention had focused on Rital, his habitual Simephobia combined with the caffeine overdose made his arms shake with tension.
Rital suggested, “Let’s try a basic exercise. It’s not difficult. The idea is to tense each muscle in your body in turn, then relax it. While you do that, you’re going to breathe in slowly and breathe out. We’ll start with your toes...”
Rital coached Arth through the exercise, repeating steps as necessary until the Gen could lie still and relaxed on the lounge. When he relaxed, his anxiety waned. A wave of bone-deep exhaustion swept through his nager and the resistance across the barrier that blocked access to the GN-2 storage level finally quivered and dissolved.
But not completely. That would be too much to expect since Arth’s culture neither valued the ability to control one’s feelings consciously nor truly believed that it was possible to do so. However, the resistance was low enough that Rital thought he could reach through it and access the reservoir of selyn beyond.
He continued talking, coaching Arth to imagine himself as a cat settling down for a nap in that peculiarly boneless fashion that felines could manage on demand. He glanced at Den, cueing him to take up the verbal instruction, then bent to make the necessary lip contact.
Arth tensed as his old habit reasserted itself and the GN-2 barrier responded in step, closing against Rital. Undeterred, he adjusted the gradient between them to an even more gentle flow, stripped the selyn from the GN-3 level, then waited. Gradually, the GN-2 barrier relaxed again, in response to Den’s murmured instructions and Arth’s exhaustion. Rital followed the change in resistance smoothly, drawing selyn through the partially lowered barrier. He adjusted his draw speed to just below the Gen’s ability to perceive the still-impeded flow and held it. It was only a slow trickle of selyn, but it was selyn he’d never been able to touch before.
This is going to work.
Den’s voice murmured softly as he helped Arth maintain the relaxed state. “...so you see, this exercise can help you sleep at night, or focus your concentration so you can do your best even when you’re distracted or upset. With just a little practice, you won’t have to worry about freezing in front of those cranky professors on your committee...”
Arth’s GN-2 barrier slammed closed, locking Rital away from the selyn he’d been drawing. With no time to bring the flow to a gentle halt, the channel wrenched himself out of the lip contact, taking the backlash of the broken nageric link onto himself and shielding Arth from harm. The interrupted flow had involved only his secondary system, the one used for channel’s functionals, not the primary system that supported his metabolism directly. While not life-threatening, it still hurt.
“Are you all right, Hajene?” Arth asked, concern for Rital adding to his volatile emotions.
Rital realized that in his struggle to protect a donor from harm, he had failed to guard his expression. It wasn’t prudent to show doubt or weakness while in lateral contact with a problem out-Territory selyn donor.
“I’m fine,” he assured the student, leaning hard on Den’s offered support to steady the cross-currents in his secondary system. There was a reason why the technical term for the shock of interrupted selyn flow, shen, was also one of the strongest Simelan swear words. “You caught me by surprise when you lost your focus on the exercise, that’s all.”
“I shouldn’t have reminded you about your thesis committee,” Den apologized. “Although if you do practice the exercise, it will help you stay focused during your defense.”
“So would getting some sleep and eating a decent meal or three,” Rital added, the lingering pain lending an unintentional sharpness to his tone. “You’re exhausted.”
“I was going to try to nap this afternoon, although I’ve never been good at it,” Arth promised him. “My fellow graduate students are staging a practice oral exam for me tonight and I want to be as sharp as possible for it.” His nager brightened with hope. “I do feel a little more alert from your exercise. Can we try it again?”
Although the pain lingered, Den’s focused attention had restored order to Rital’s secondary system. The urgent requirement to make the most of each healthy selyn donor also remained, as did his own professional responsibility for the health of a Gen still nominally on the rolls as Sime Center staff.
Rital began talking Arth through the exercise again. This time, the Gen reached a useful degree of relaxation more quickly. Making a quick decision, Rital murmured, “and when I’m done, you’ll be able to sleep. Think about waking up at dinnertime, alert and refreshed...”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Den’s eyes widen in understanding.
Having placed the suggestion, Rital bent to make lip contact. This time, he drained the GN-2 level completely. Before dismantling contact, he used his grip on Arth’s nager to send the Gen into a deep, restful sleep.
“Are you sure that was wise?” Den whispered.
“He’s got to rest or he’s going to fall apart,” Rital pointed out, rummaging in a cabinet for a blanket. “He said he planned to nap this afternoon. I just made sure that happened.”
“Technically, that doesn’t count as informed consent when Branlee doesn’t even know that a channel can help a Gen to sleep.”
“He wouldn’t have objected if I’d explained,” Rital argued, spreading the blanket over the sleeping student. “However, he’d have fought me out of sheer reflex. Given how urgently he requires sleep...” He spread hand and tentacles in an appeal to practicality.
Fortunately, Den had a history of breaking rules himself, when they stood in the way of doing what was right. He made the formal gesture that signaled acceptance of the channel’s Call. While it shifted legal responsibility for any adverse consequences to Rital, it also absolved Den of any legal responsibility to report the infraction to the Tecton authorities if no adverse consequences occurred.
“I’ll ask Seena to make sure Arth wakes up in time to eat before he goes to his practice session,” the Donor offered.
“Thank you.” Rital updated Arth’s file, authorized payment for the increased amount of selyn he had taken, then handed both to Den. “I’ll meet you in the waiting room after I wash up. There’s always the chance that a few more healthy donors will show.”
* * * *
By the next morning, Mr. Duncan’s selyn production had fallen way behind the loss being caused by the disease. Each pulse of selyn disappeared as fast as it was produced and there were noticeable inroads on the elderly Gen’s reserves, as if an amorphous, ghostly Sime were draining him. The effect was even more spooky because it was completely void of the emotional modulations that were so much a part of any human nager, Sime or Gen.
Rital worked on Mr. Duncan’s cough only long enough to confirm that any such effort would cost dearly in lost selyn. “I think we’d better leave channel’s healing alone, for now,” he said, retracting his tentacles. “At least until we know just how far this disease will drain your selyn reserves. For now, I have a cough syrup that will help.”
“If the channels can’t treat victims of this flu nagerically without burning through their patient’s selyn reserves,” Rital observed over breakfast, “that will prolong illness and increase complications.”
“We don’t know whether Mr. Duncan’s case is typical,” Den observed, digging into a towering heap of fried potatoes.
Looming potential Territory-wide selyn shortages caused by a plague out of a hard-core horror novel had done nothing to dull Den’s Gen appetite, Rital reflected, but then, very little did. He, himself, could barely stomach his one piece of toast, even with jam.
“We can’t expect District Controller Monruss to act on the basis of one case and a lot of speculation,” Rital agreed. “Mr. Duncan is quite old; his case may be more severe than average.”
“Even our selyn donors don’t seek a channel’s help when they get sick,” Den pointed out. “How the shen can we determine what’s typical with this disease, when you can’t zlin its victims until after they’ve recovered?” He lifted another forkful of fried potatoes to his mouth, then used the time required to chew it to cut a bite out of a stack of pancakes. Proving his ability to multi-task, he simultaneously cast hungry eyes at the bowl of fruit next to his food-heaped plate.
Rital started to make the obligatory Sime joke about Gen appetites, then paused. “I think I know how to get a zlin of more flu cases.”
“So, what do you want me to do, again?” Den asked that afternoon, as the cousins stepped out of the Sime Center van normally used to deliver selyn batteries to the train station. Today, its shelves carried large jars of hot soup and loaves of sourdough bread.
The van was parked beside an apartment complex on the poor side of town. The buildings had never been a showcase of municipal living, even when new. Decades of student tenants and poor maintenance had long since robbed them of respectability.
“We’re going to knock on each door and ask if anyone is sick,” Rital explained, holding up a small rubber hammer used to test reflexes, then slipping it into his shirt pocket. Local custom was to announce one’s presence by bashing one’s knuckles against the door, but the channel drew the line at self-inflicted injury. “If so, I’ll offer a container of soup and a loaf of bread, along with a lot of sympathy. Meanwhile, I’ll take advantage of the open door to zlin the selyn fields of the sick inhabitants.”
“You can’t zlin Gens in other rooms clearly enough while you’re wearing retainers,” Den objected, staring pointedly at the metal manacles that encased Rital’s tentacles. The Unity treaty that had stopped centuries of war between Sime and Gen Territories required all Simes, including channels, to wear the things while in Gen Territory or be shot on sight as a presumed berserker, intent on Killing the nearest Gen for selyn. In addition to confining the tentacles, they distorted a Sime’s ability to zlin selyn fields.
“Those walls might as well be paper screens, for all the insulation they provide,” Rital assured Den as the Gen pulled a utility cart out of the van and began stocking the top shelf with soup jars. “Besides, maybe we’ll find an apartment or two where the door is answered by somebody who’s sick.”
“We have plenty of soup and bread, I suppose,” Den agreed, placing a basket of loaves beside the soup jars. “And in a college town, there’s no shortage of cheap apartments.”
The first apartment in the complex had a battered toy wagon partly blocking the entry into its miniature “yard.” The wail of a fretful infant penetrated the thin walls and door as easily as the hopeless exhaustion of the infant’s mother.
“I think the baby’s sick,” Rital told his cousin. “We’ve got to find out how this flu affects children. They don’t have much selyn to begin with and they can’t produce more quickly.” Without waiting for Den to catch up, he rapped on the door with the rubber hammer.
Immediately, the yapping of a small dog added to the din. “Fluffy, quiet!” the mother ordered. “Go lie down. Answer the door, Hyacinth.”
The door opened and a moppet of about three years peered up at them, absently chewing on her fingers. Rital turned his attention beyond her, to the tired mother and sick infant.
“Good afternoon, ma’am,” he said. “I’m Hajene Madz from the Sime Center and this is my Donor, Sosu Milnan. We heard there were a lot of people who had fallen sick, so we dropped by to see if we could help.” Desperate to zlin the condition of the baby, Rital concentrated on the blur that the retainers made of his Sime senses. It was difficult to distinguish the weak child’s nager against the much stronger field of the mother.
In his concentration on his Sime senses, he forgot to keep his eyes focused. The mother wasn’t one of the Sime Center’s selyn donors, but any Gen understood what that unfocused look meant. She shrieked in alarm and darted toward them. Yanking her daughter back with the hand that wasn’t occupied with the baby, she slammed the door shut. The bolt shot home with a firm click.
“That could have gone better,” Den stated the obvious as he wheeled their utility cart out of the yard. “Did you zlin anything interesting while you were scaring that woman to death?”
“I think the baby had colic, not flu,” Rital admitted. “Not that I can be sure, under the circumstances.” He turned his attention to the next entryway, which was decorated with two empty beer bottles. “Let’s try again. There are three Gens in this apartment and they’re all miserable. And hungry.”
The young man who answered Rital’s knock was pale, dressed in knit pants and a moth-eaten robe. Rital didn’t recognize him, but his field was increasing like a selyn donor’s about a week and a half away from his next donation. Unlike the mother in the previous apartment, he wasn’t particularly afraid as Rital introduced himself and Den and explained their mission. When his eyes focused on the cart and its jars of soup and bread, his stomach grumbled loudly.
“That’s very neighborly of you,” he admitted. “We ran out of everything but noodles two days ago.”
However, when Rital, hoping for a closer zlin, tried to pass the young man a jar of soup, he shied backward, flaring fear. Rital apologized, reminding himself that he could no longer judge whether or not a Gen was a selyn donor by the condition of his selyn field. When the young man calmed, he accepted a jar of soup, careful not to touch the channel’s hand.
“I think I’d better do the knocking and talking,” Den suggested. “If you’re pushing the cart, you’ll alarm them less.”
This strategy proved more successful, and by the time the van was empty of soup and bread, Rital had managed to get a reasonably clear zlin of a dozen more Gen students with flu. All showed the same unsettling combination of selyn production and undefined selyn consumption that Mr. Duncan displayed.
The one bright spot of the afternoon was a single child with flu, the son of two regular Sime Center donors. They invited Den and Rital in and allowed him to remove his retainers and zlin the boy properly. To the channel’s great relief, the child’s weak selyn field was unaffected by the disease. It remained steady, neither producing nor consuming selyn.
“So at least this flu isn’t going to Kill every child who gets it,” Rital reported, as Den lifted the cart back into their van. The Simelan language usually reserved the word “Kill” for the brutal death experienced by an untrained Gen who was attacked by a Sime berserk with the Need for selyn, but a child was equally unlikely to survive the selyn drain experienced by the sick adult Gens.
“Hajene!” a voice hissed from within the hedge that separated the current apartment complex from the house next door. “Hajene Madz, please, I have to talk with you.”
The head of an adolescent boy emerged from the hedge as they approached. Rital recognized him from the changeover training classes he and Den had taught at the middle school. “Calvin Nermann, how can I help you?”
“I was sick this morning. My mother says it’s the flu, but I think...I think it might be changeover.”
Rital zlinned the anxious boy through the distortion of the retainers. There was a definite drop in selyn production, but that was less diagnostic than it should be. “Step out here a moment, Calvin,” he directed. “Den, can you block the ambient so I can get a clearer reading?”
With his Donor’s support, Rital could zlin that the drop in field strength wasn’t linked to selyn production. It also had an emotional component, unlike the flu-related selyn consumption. “I think you’re right,” he told the boy. “You’re becoming a Sime, but you caught it early and found help. You won’t become a berserker and attack the closest Gen for selyn.”
Calvin choked back a sob. “I’ll have to leave Clear Springs forever,” he mourned.
“Well, yes,” Rital admitted. “Let’s talk to your parents.”
* * * *
Back at the Sime Center, they installed Calvin in a bed in the changeover ward and made him comfortable. It was a relief to have a patient with a well-known and treatable problem. Without retainers, Rital could clearly zlin the normal changes as the boy’s body prepared to shift from burning calories to burning selyn. “You’re in Stage Three,” he told his patient. “Your tentacles are just starting to develop. You might as well take a nap. It’ll be a while before anything exciting starts to happen.”
Leaving Calvin to rest, they adjourned to Rital’s office on the second floor to put their heads together over a cup of trin tea. Rital took a long sip, letting the savory brew calm his nerves, then pulled a notepad in front of him and reached for a pen.
“So, let’s summarize what we know or guess about this new strain of flu,” he suggested. “To begin with, every Gen who gets it appears to lose a week’s worth of selyn, plus or minus a few days.”
“But children don’t lose any selyn, although they can get sick,” Den added, with Gen optimism.
“Any attempt to treat Gen patients using channeling methods causes the patient to burn even more selyn,” Rital continued.
“But most sick Gens seem to recover without such treatment, although not as quickly.”
“If exposure to a channel’s projection causes a sick Gen to burn more selyn, what happens during an outbreak in an in-Territory town, when sick Gens are being looked after by their renSime relatives?” Rital wondered. “Will they also burn even more selyn than our students in Clear Springs? And how will the Tecton’s channels be able to supply selyn to the renSimes with that severe a shortfall?”
“Are you sure you’re not borrowing trouble?” Den asked. “Mr. Duncan is old. His case may not be typical.”
“Of course, I’m not sure,” Rital snapped, frustration sharpening his voice. “I’ve deep-zlinned exactly two sick patients, one of whom was a child, and neither one of us is a specialist in treating infectious disease.”
Den raised a hand in tacit apology, cutting off the incipient tirade. “Perhaps it’s time to consult some real experts?” he suggested.
Rital regained control of his temper, then nodded. “I think we have enough information on this flu to make a preliminary report to the District offices in Valzor,” he agreed. “If what we’ve found is typical, the more time they have to prepare, the better.”
“I’ve never heard of a disease that causes Gens to burn selyn!” District Controller Monruss protested, his skepticism clear even through the tinny distortion of the telephone. “Are you sure of what you zlinned?”
“As sure as any Sime,” Rital allowed. “Which is to say, I know what I zlinned and think I know what it means. We’ve had a steady stream of Gen students who traveled to Bawson for a sporting event, got sick, recovered, but somehow lost about a week’s selyn production along the way.”
“Are you sure it was because of this flu?” Monruss asked, in the patient tone Rital’s instructors had used during his training. Rital didn’t mind. Much. Diagnosis was as much an art as a science and the public safety measures that would be required if he was right would, themselves, create widespread damage to the economy and hardship to every citizen. The Tecton couldn’t afford to be wrong about the necessity.
“I’ve only had a chance to deep-zlin one Gen who was sick with the disease,” he admitted. “Mr. Duncan’s selyn production is about what I’d expect for a sick Gen of his age, but it’s disappearing into nowhere and his field is actually dropping. Every treatment I’ve tried, from supporting his immune system to controlling his aches and pains, has been effective, but at the cost of a significant increase in the amount of selyn wasted. If the sickness lasts the normal five to seven days for a flu, that would explain the missing week’s worth of selyn production I’ve zlinned in our general-class donors.”
“It sounds like some cheap horror movie put out by the Genfarm,” Monruss complained. “The Legend of the Creeping Need.”
“Perhaps that legend is based on an outbreak of this flu strain, or one like it?” Rital suggested. “I find it disconcerting enough to zlin Mr. Duncan’s selyn disappearing into nothingness, and I have Den to serve my Need. How much worse would it have been for the old Penkeepers to zlin that spreading through their Gen stock?”
“Could this response to flu be something peculiar to the local Gens of Clear Springs?” Monruss speculated hopefully. “The Tecton doesn’t have much information on the populations of Gens who’ve lived for generations in the center of New Washington Territory. Our records are mostly limited to populations closer to the border, who are more likely to donate selyn today and were more likely to end up in the Gen Army or be captured by Raiders before Unity.”
“We haven’t seen a representative sample of flu seasons in Clear Springs yet,” Rital admitted. “However, Clear Springs University draws students from across New Washington Territory. Our recovered selyn donors from that population all lost a week’s worth of selyn production. Whatever it is, this syndrome isn’t limited to the local Gens.”
“If we have a selyn-eating plague on our tentacles, it poses a genuine risk to the stability of the Tecton,” Monruss admitted. “Particularly if any attempt to treat patients just makes the situation worse.”
“We run the mobile Sime Center clinic in Berrysville tomorrow,” Rital offered. “I’ll ask Dr. Lennard whether he knows anything about this flu strain. With half the University students sick, the out-Territory doctors must know something about it. Even some idea of how contagious this strain is would be a start.”
“An excellent idea,” Monruss agreed. “Report back if you learn anything relevant. While I’ve got you on the phone, I have another task for you.”
“What might that be?” Rital asked cautiously, hoping that the Controller’s request was something he could pass off to his staff.
“You’ve heard that our diplomats have finally persuaded the governments of Amzon, Zillia and Cordona to agree to a summit on neutral ground, at which they will negotiate how to implement last year’s groundbreaking treaty?”
“Yes,” Rital admitted. The Gen Territories of Amzon and Zillia had been at war with each other and with their neighboring Sime Territory, Cordona, for over a hundred years. The Tecton’s diplomats had brokered a three-way treaty, but in an unprecedented show of unity, all three signatories refused to abide by it.
“Since much of the resistance stems from the reluctance of Amzon and Zillia to have Sime Centers in their towns,” Monruss explained, “the Diplomatic Corps decided to hold the summit at your Clear Springs Sime Center. Seeing a Gen city with an active Sime Center should convince the skeptics among them that it can be done.”
“Let me guess. Bethany Lifton’s grandparents want to monitor her pregnancy themselves?” The young woman was only a general-class selyn donor, but her grandfather, Sosu Quess ambrov Shaeldor, was the chief diplomat handling the three-way diplomatic negotiations for the Tecton. “In case you’ve forgotten, we have an epidemic in progress. Are you sure it’s a good idea to hold a summit here?”
“It’s too late. The delegates are already in transit,” Monruss admitted. His voice took on a coaxing tone. “Sosu Quess and his team will handle most of the work. All that’s required of you as official host is to give the delegates an official greeting and provide space for them to work. Oh, and a few social functions.”
Rital sighed. “I’ll manage, somehow,” he promised.
CHAPTER 2
Time to Prepare
The next morning, Rital and Den left their patients in the care of the Sime Center’s other First Order channel, Tyvi ambrov Frihill, and set off in the van for Berrysville, a small farming community about eight miles from Clear Springs. Berrysville had a factory that produced irrigation tubing, another that processed walnuts, and not much else. It was far too small to support a Sime Center of its own. However, its Mayor and City Council had requested that the Sime Center hold regular mobile clinics, at which local Gens could donate selyn or have their children examined by a channel to determine whether they had established selyn production and were therefore in no danger of changing over into Simes.
The event was hosted by the town’s only medical facility, a clinic run by Dr. Lennard. The young physician’s late father had bought the building to sell parts for agricultural equipment. Broken tractors being more common than broken people in the Berrysville area, Dr. Lennard’s practice used only part of the space. He was happy to rent the unused wing to the Tecton, both for the extra income and because it provided him with an opportunity to sate his curiosity about how channels treated disease and injury.
The van pulled up at the clinic with half an hour to spare. After setting up, Rital and Den sought out Dr. Lennard, who was in his office preparing for his own workday.
“I just got my annual analysis of last year’s flu season,” Dr. Lennard told them. “It only includes the Gen Territories, so I wanted to compare it to your Tecton’s data. Where did I put it?” He rummaged through a stack of papers on one of his office chairs.
“Here it is,” he said, plopping a thick report down on the desk. “The Medical Association analysts stop at the border, but the flu doesn’t. I was wondering if your Tecton agrees on the pattern of spread.”
Rital looked at the Gen doctor in confusion. “The pattern of spread? Flu appears anywhere and everywhere, during the season. It stays a few weeks or months, then disappears until the next year.”
It was Dr. Lennard’s turn to be confused. “You mean, with all its careful record keeping on the health of every citizen, your Tecton doesn’t bother to track the most common epidemic disease there is?”
“Why track a disease that appears and disappears unpredictably?’ Den asked.
“Flu never goes away,” Dr. Lennard explained. “It just travels.” He flipped past the introduction to a page that showed a series of maps of the entire northern continent, overlaid with red circles of various sizes.
“In most years, flu arrives in the eastern ports of New Washington and Nengland Territories in fall, carried on ships from the trading centers across the ocean, where their flu season is at its peak.” He placed a finger on the first map, which showed three large red circles and several smaller ones along the eastern coastline.
One of the large circles, Rital noted, covered Bawson.
“From there,” Dr. Lennard continued, “flu spreads along the trade routes, but does particularly well in southern New Washington and in Heartland Territory, where the weather doesn’t keep people as isolated.” His finger moved to the second map, which had additional red circles and blotches on the lower portion, surrounding Gulf Territory. Gulf Territory proper was colored grey for “no data.”
“Once a critical mass is reached,” Lennard pointed at the third and final map, “spread becomes less predictable, jumping from city to city as travelers bring the disease to vulnerable populations. The chain of infection stops in each place when enough people have gotten sick and recovered that there aren’t enough susceptible people to sustain the cycle.”
Den looked at the third map with interest. “That would explain the random occurrence of flu in Nivet,” he observed. “We only get it during the third stage, coming in with winter citrus and other goods imported through Gulf Territory.”
“Which enjoys particularly close trade relationships with Heartland Territory and the bordering portions of New Washington,” Rital finished grimly, looking at the spread of red as the maps progressed down the page. How can the Tecton stop, or even slow, the selyn plague if it’s arriving in Nivet Territory from anywhere and everywhere?
“Understanding when the flu spreads to a particular area lets us prepare for it,” Dr. Lennard continued, blithely ignoring their dismay. “The flu season in Clear Springs usually starts just after Year’s Turning, when students returning from the holidays bring the disease back with them. That’s when I order supplies, because it takes about two weeks to spread to my patients here in Berrysville.”
“You should place that order now,” Rital advised grimly. “Half of the university students spent their fall break in Bawson getting sick.”
“That would change the pattern of spread,” Dr. Lennard admitted. “However, it’s just flu. We see it every year. This year’s strain is supposed to spread easily, but it’s not as severe as some. As long as they can get the walnut crop in, we’ll manage just fine.”
“If we’re lucky, this year’s flu will only bring the continent’s economy to a crashing halt,” Rital corrected the doctor grimly. “At worst, it could destroy the Tecton, and the Unity Treaty with it, sending us back to a state of perpetual war between Sime and Gen Territories.”
“The flu?” Dr. Lennard asked. “How could a well-known, seasonal disease collapse the economy and start a war?”
“By attacking the Tecton at its weakest point,” Den told him. “And stressing it until it fails.”
Rital described the missing selyn in donors who had caught the flu. “Most of the selyn that supports the renSimes in Nivet and other Sime Territories comes from the Gens who live there,” he explained, “because selyn shipped in batteries becomes...tainted...and doesn’t satisfy a Sime’s Need properly. That internal supply is supplemented with some of the selyn collected from out-Territory Gens at the border Sime Centers, particularly when renSimes must use extra selyn to, say, stay warm in midwinter or bring in the harvest.”
“The rest of the selyn collected at the border, and almost all collected by our Sime Center, goes into batteries to run trains, factories and vehicles,” Den continued. “There’s never much surplus. If we lose a quarter of our selyn to this flu, even for just a month, our entire economy will have to be shut down, so that every dynopter of selyn can be used to provide transfers for our renSimes. New Washington’s industry is less selyn-based, but the trains that transport the goods to market...” He shrugged. “Trains are gluttons for selyn and will probably be an early casualty of the shutdowns.”
“That’s a best-case option,” Rital added. Simes lived every day with the inevitable decline into Need, as their bodies burned through their selyn reserves. It made Rital more pessimistic than his Gen cousin.
“Your Tecton posts channels at the border train stations anyway, to collect donations from Gen travelers heading into Sime Territory,” Dr. Lennard observed. “They can zlin everyone coming into Nivet Territory for flu and isolate anyone who’s sick before it can spread.”
“That only covers people who cross by train,” Den observed. “The border folks often use the roads instead.”
“It won’t stop this flu entirely, but it would slow the spread,” Rital said, warming to the idea. “Particularly if we can convince people in the border communities not to travel when ill.
“That’s right,” Dr. Lennard encouraged them. “Make sure you don’t lose all that selyn in the same month.”
“Allowing the cities and town that haven’t gotten the flu yet, or that have already had their outbreak, to help support the ones that are affected currently?” Rital considered the logistics, then decided that coordinating such a scheme was far above the pay grade of the Controller of a simple municipal Sime Center. Such a program would require the resources of the World Controller’s office.
Would they listen to a channel with no special training in epidemic diseases and no political connections, who came to them with a horror story straight out of legend?
They would have to, or over a hundred years of working for peace between Sime and Gen Territories would collapse.
“It would still be a nightmare, trying to move enough selyn into affected areas,” Rital said, “but it might be possible. If they start planning now. Part of that planning has to involve your new, lightweight selyn battery,” Rital told his cousin after clinic, when they set out to visit the warehouse Den had rented for his factory and research facility. “If the Tecton has to use the selyn collected at the border to support renSimes in affected areas, it will have to be carried by channels. That means keeping the trains going, so we’ll have to get the most out of every dribble of industrial selyn that can be spared.”
He gestured in emphasis, with due respect for the metal retainers that encased his tentacles.
“We’re developing a prototype battery to submit to the Economic Development Board,” Den reported.
“How long before your batteries can run the trains?” Rital asked, focusing on the most relevant metric.
Den frowned. “The Board meets to consider a new round of potential technological advances next month. If our application is picked for further study, they’ll ask for a prototype to test. If they like that, we can ask the Transit Authority whether they want to buy some batteries.” He sighed. “Perhaps by next fall?”
“That’s almost a year from now,” Rital observed. “The selyn plague will have run its course by then, one way or the other.”
“I know,” Den agreed glumly. “That also assumes that the Transit Authority’s contract with Householding Ohmand allows them to purchase batteries from another source.” Householding Ohmand held the patent on the standard selyn battery and used it to maintain a stranglehold on technological progress.
They walked in silence for a moment. “Is your battery design ready for general use?” Rital asked. “Do the reworked terminals look enough like the standard ones that channels can load and unload selyn safely without special instruction? Are there tie-downs in place so the batteries can be secured in standard racks? For that matter, do your designs come in standard sizes?”
“The terminals look more standard now,” the Donor said. “We moved the surge protector inside the box to make them less confusing. Of course, my battery will still have a lot more capacity than uninformed channels will expect.”
Rital nodded. “That’s going to happen no matter what you do.”
“For the rest...” Den shrugged. “We haven’t worried about standard sizes and tie-downs because we’re making batteries for test purposes, not general use.”
“A train uses a bank of ten extra-large batteries,” Rital mused, “the ones with four times the capacity of the standard, pickle barrel-sized ones. Those batteries must be changed or recharged every hundred miles or so.” He grinned slyly. “At places like Clear Springs.”
Den stopped, staring at Rital in shock. “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting, cousin?”
“This is an emergency,” Rital argued. “Aren’t you the one who always used to say that it’s easier to get forgiveness than permission?
“Yes,” Den admitted. “I was frequently wrong, as it turned out.”
“Wrong or right, this is an emergency,” Rital repeated. “You may require preapproval from the Economic Development Board before you can submit a bid to the Transport Authority. However, there’s no Tecton regulation that says the Clear Springs Sime Center has to ship the selyn we collect in standard Ohmand batteries.”
“That’s because nobody else has ever made selyn batteries for commercial use!”
“Do you know how to make a working selyn battery that can move a train, but which doesn’t spoil in a month or two and weighs only as much as a seven-year-old child, not sixteen overfed oxen?”
“Well, yes,” Den admitted. “Except for the little matter of how I would pay for materials and labor, if I’m giving the batteries away for free.”
“Cousin, if you start putting your batteries out where the Transport Authority can notice them, I guarantee that you’ll have more paying orders than you can possibly fill, when this selyn plague has run its course.”
* * * *
The warehouse rented by Den’s company, Flight Innovations, was a rectangular block of concrete with a row of windows just under the eaves to let in light. There were two doors on the front of the building, one sized for freight vehicles and one for pedestrians. The rest of the space was taken up by a colorful mural depicting Simes and Gens working together to build the artist’s conception of a flyer, which bore some resemblance to the illustration on the front of Den’s favorite reference work, A History of Ancient Aviation. Above the mural, the same student artist had lettered “Flight Innovations” in bold yellow and blue, with three flyers making circles around and through it. Between the two entrances was an in-Territory style door knocker: a slab of wood with a small hammer dangling from it. Above it was lettered “UNITY AT WORK” and “KNOCK FOR ENTRY.” Inside, the warehouse bustled with activity. Den’s employees were mostly Clear Springs University students, who made up in enthusiasm for what their schedules lacked in long-range stability.
One team was slicing large sheets of brightly colored, metal-impregnated polycarbonate into smaller sections. Branlee Arnborg had developed the material originally as a lightweight substitute for the lead-lined oak containers used for standard selyn batteries. However, it also made very effective selyn-insulating screens for use in Sime Centers and other places where nageric insulation was wanted.
Other teams polished the sheets, attached stands to turn them into free-standing screens and packed them into boxes and crates for shipment across Nivet Territory. Sales of variously sized screens now supported Den’s entire research program into selyn batteries and eventually, he hoped, powered flight.
Only the corner that was to be dedicated to the research effort was unoccupied. Until the building could be posted as legally Sime Territory, the retainer laws were in effect. While Den waited for the Diplomatic Corps to process his application, the research portion of his enterprise remained in the Sime Center’s basement.
Den strode into the middle of the warehouse, let out a shrill whistle, and held up a hand for attention, out-Territory style. “People, we’re changing our priorities as of today,” he announced. “Instead of making screens, we’re going to be building selyn batteries. Not prototypes, but ones designed to run the trains all over this part of the continent.”
He asked Rital to explain about the selyn plague and the impending shortage of industrial selyn, then started giving orders. “Branlee, you contact your friends at the Berrysville Irrigation Supplies factory and order as many sheets of your polycarbonate as they can produce. We’ll use up what we have here very quickly.”
The former graduate student and first full-time employee of Flight Innovations nodded crisply. Rital could zlin his pride that his discovery had become pivotal in solving a crisis.
Three students were assigned the job of buying up all the coffee they could find at the grocery stores in Clear Springs, Berrysville, and surrounding communities. “The rest of you, start figuring out how to manufacture batteries efficiently,” Den finished. “We want to start replacing batteries on the trains passing through Clear Springs with our new ones by ten days from now. By then, the students who caught the flu in Bawton can donate selyn again. Don’t forget to turn in your new class schedules and the days you can work.” He looked around at his employees with justifiable pride. “If we can pull this off, we’ll save the economies of Nivet and New Washington Territories both. Let’s do it!”
With a cheer, the students sorted themselves out and got to work, with an effortless ease that in-Territory citizens could never match. While Rital found the out-Territory educational system’s obsession with team sports ridiculous, its graduates did know how to work together toward a common goal.
“Well done, cousin,” Rital murmured, watching the frenetic activity. “Your batteries will power civilization yet.”
“Not unless I can buy up this year’s walnut crop and get it pressed into oil,” Den reminded him. “Care to come with me to visit the Triangle Walnut Grower’s Association processing plant?”
* * * *
The Triangle Walnuts plant was a typical out-Territory factory: a large concrete building filled with complicated machines, powered by a huge windmill in back. Work crews were inspecting, cleaning, and repairing the equipment in preparation for the upcoming harvest. In a second-floor office with windows overlooking the busy work floor they found Sam Kutchins, the owner of the factory and president of the Walnut Marketing Board. With him was Berrysville Mayor Jon Mills. Both men were frowning down at a curious box. It was flat and sectioned into a 10 by 10 grid of small compartments, each of which held half a walnut kernel. The nagers of the two Gens projected a pall of gloom.
“Is something wrong, Mayor Mills?” Rital asked, after greetings had been exchanged.
“Look at that!” The Mayor pointed at the box. “It’s samples of the new crop.”
Rital looked down at the sample box. They looked like walnuts to him. “Is something wrong with them?”
“Thanks to the drought last summer, they’re almost all light or light amber,” Kutchins explained. “There’s hardly an extra light one to be seen and it’s the extra light ones that bring a premium price from the baking industry.”
